memoir of a memory
by DrinkingAlcoholicRainbows
Summary: This is just a note, a little piece of paper containing words that hold basically no meaning whatsoever. :: A memoir is many things. It is a biography, an essay, or an account of something particularly noteworthy. James Potter readily considers his son's seventeenth birthday as this, and writes his own. Only he isn't there.


_ { memoir }_

_n._

_an account of something noteworthy_

* * *

Hey Harry,

It's me. Your dad. Guess you probably know that, though. Or maybe you won't. Ha! Just kidding. You're my son, I'm your dad; unless your mum and I didn't bomb you with letters from your first year at Hogwarts, there just would not be any way for you not to know my handwriting. Unless I died. Which of course I didn't, seeing as I'm too awesome for that and I love you too much to miss out on your 17th birthday. Speaking of which, that's today! And that's great. You're seventeen now. I still distinctly remember reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard to you on what should be years and years ago by now, and there you are, probably taller than me by the time you get this.

Eh. That's really mushy. I'm dreadfully sorry.

Oh, if you were expecting anything special out of this, then you're not really going to get that. This is just a note, a little piece of paper containing words that hold basically no meaning whatsoever. Granted, it's a long one, but parchment! It's beautiful. Old-fashioned, yeah, but beautiful. I digress.

Harry James Potter, you are now of legal age to perform magic of your own. By now, it has been six wonderfully great years for you and your buddies at Hogwarts. If I know anything about myself and the genes I passed on, it's been delightfully...not quiet. Maybe you had adventures, maybe you sneaked out, maybe you snarked a lot, and maybe you got in a fair bit of trouble a bit less than what it's worth. But I'm going to tell you something that everyone eventually learns when they finally get their chance to grow up, and what they learn when they take it.

It will always, and forever will be, worth it.

Maybe not all of it. Maybe you got too pissed at a party and suddenly you're on the The Daily Prophet, with the lead reporter saying that you're mad and just possibly the closest thing we have to a real life Dionysus. Maybe you said harsh words to your friend that you didn't really mean. Maybe you did something, even just the smallest slip of the tongue, that you will regret for the rest of your life. But you have to admit this; some, even the littlest of few, you wouldn't ever regret happening to you, ever.

Like when you do that really stupid thing that gained you a friend. Like when you fight for what you believe in and win. Like when you survive. Like when you get that happy ending. Like when you get to eat your favorite snack after a long day. Like when you finally get to fall asleep. Like when, even in the darkest of days you find yourself grinning, because you have someone to come home for. Like when you get a family. Like when you get friends that become your family.

Like when you see that your son became the greatest man you ever knew.

So, Harry, you live on, yeah? Your old man's not going to be here forever, and we really need to get a move on with the Potter line. Your mum and I are planning to give you a little sister, you know? Maybe she'll be there, tugging on your robes and basically being a giant annoyance. I felt that way about your Aunt Marlene, and she's only my cousin. And Uncle Padfoot, since he's kind of a girl anyway.

Happy Seventeenth, Harry. Mister Prongs owes to you his final great salute.

Signed, your dad, on this not-so-delightful English morn of the 13th, October 1980.

P.S. Never ever try to put glasses on with magic. Of course, this is assuming you have my spectacular -40/20 eyesight. If you don't, but also if you do, because this applies to every wizard in existence; don't do it with your zipper. That's too much to risk.

P.P.S. Aunt Molly, remember her? Yeah, remind her of the bet she lost. She holds a promise to make me a cake for any occasion, on any given time. Ask for one with a giant Golden Snitch.

P.P.P.S. This never reaches to your mother.

P.P.P.P.S. I love you.

P.P.P.P.P.S. That never reaches to your mother either. She'll accuse me of becoming soft. What lies and slander.

* * *

_Later, at the grave of the one wrote the note, a lanky figure will appear with a loud crack. Said figure will kneel down, put his hands on his face, and start shaking. If one listens closely, you will hear the man's sobs. If you strain your ears, you will hear the words, "I'm sorry. I doubted you. I'm sorry," repeated like a madman's mantra. If you stay for a few more minutes, you will see the silhouette of the man reach out for something that isn't there. He will then conjure flowers from his wand and place them on the grave. Upon closer inspection, one might notice that they are lilies._

_Upon closer inspection, one might notice how green the man's eyes are. But he will leave as fast as he came, and one can never be sure. _


End file.
